


Hand in hand we'll walk together

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: #coulsonlives, 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Phil Coulson, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Clint Sings, M/M, Magical Realism, Meet the Family, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has learnt how to hide from a young age. How to stop tears, how to disguise emotions, how to let go of his sense of self and disappear, losing himself in shadows.<br/>Whenever he's scared, or nervous, or anxious, or wary, Clint hides, because he can, because he knows how and he's used to it, and in time, it's driven less by self-preservation and more by reassurance, a brief reprieve, to remember that everything is fine, there is nothing to worry about, giving him the silence to collect himself and carry on.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Five times Clint disappeared, and the first time he didn't.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand in hand we'll walk together

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : This fic contains non-graphic violence, non-graphic abuse, and hints at past child abuse.  
> Please use your own discretion when reading.

1.

It's Tuesday again.

Clint huddles into his corner, scrunching his eyes shut, hands over his ears, whispering "Stop, _stop_ ," over and over, but he can't muffle out the sharp cries of pain, the breathless terror, the resounding slap, the bellowed curses.

Barney is gone, having already scarpered, but Clint had stayed, because she'd asked, because she was convinced that _it isn't going to happen_ , that _this time is going to be different_ , that _he's in a better mood today, Clint, I promise you won't get hurt, he doesn't mean it, I can fix it, I can make it better, he loves me, I promise_.

Clint bites back his whimper as his mother sobs, the aching sound ripped from a ravaged throat, as his father strikes her again, fist crushing into already-bruised skin, and again, and again, and _again_ , and he knows, with a dreadful, terrifying certainty, _he's going to be hurt next_.

So he holds in his horrified wail ( _stop stop it hurts please stop please-_ ) and lets his breathing slow, and he wraps himself in the shadows of his shelter, and his mind empties, his eyes focus, and he lets out one slow, shuddering breath-

 

_you can't hear me you can't see me i'm not here i'm not here i'm not here_

 

Clint Barton ceases to exist.

A tiny glint reflects from the darkened corner of the house as Harold Barton mercilessly hits, and slaps, and mauls.

And when her aching whimpers stop, when she's crumpled on the floor, battered, used, bruised and broken, and his drunken fury is still unsatisfied, still burning with a blistering need to hurt, there is no one there.

 

 

 

2.

Clint races through the crowd, legs searing from the strain of sprinting, pumping and jerking as he pushes and elbows and jumps and twists, because _they're after him, oh god, they're after him, Barney's after him-!_

He turns on his heel, worn out soles skidding across the uneven ground, and darts into a gap between the tents, into a darkness, and he cartwheels over the crates with an eerily graceful move that has been so deeply ingrained into him he doesn't spare any thought for executing it, and his searching eyes scan and catalogue and dismiss, because _too small, too thin, too narrow, too far, too wide, too close-_

_Perfect._

Clint slips into a tiny gap between two abandoned trailers, and he calms his mind, inviting the darkness in like an old friend, cloaking himself in the familiar shadows, embracing the stillness of the night, and his mind goes perfectly blank. Clint exhales one last time as everything around him slows and-

 

_just a shadow just a figment just a contour just an outline just silhouettes_

 

 

Clint Barton disappears.

Pounding feet follow the trail of muddy footprints, but they stop inconclusively in a patch of ground ringed in darkness, the light of circus blocked by the empty trailers.

"Clint?" Barney calls out carefully, voice raspy with exertion, before letting the wheedling creep into his tone. " _C'mon_ , Clint, it was just a joke. The Swordsman's going to help us make it big, we can split the share of the profits, you don't need to tell anyone, right?"

His words ring in the empty silence, and another pair of footsteps slinks up to him.

"He's doubled back," the Swordsman murmurs, his voice a faint hiss in the emptiness of the night, and Barney nods, because he knows Clint trusts him, he knows Clint can't hide from him.

They leave together, and the barest whisper of a shape glimmers in the vestiges of the dimmed light.

 

 

 

3.

Clint is used to this, the perverse thrill of a hunt gone wrong, the heady rush of being the prey instead of the predator, the adrenaline singing in his veins, and he runs, loping and graceful, elegance in motion, and he knows the people he passes won't remember him, will see him as a passing jogger or a lost tourist slipping amongst them.

He never should've taken this job in the first place, and he knows exactly what Natasha would say about it ( _foolish risky silly дурачок_ ) but he knows she knows exactly why he chose to go through with it, chose to accept it, because now he's killed the boss, the head honcho in charge of-

He can't even think it in the safety of his own head without his gut roiling, so he represses it, concentrating his considerable focus onto the next step, and the next, flying across the ground, and his eyes instinctively dart and flick and glance and peer, and he feels a frenzied smile cross his lips because _that alleyway full of cardboard boxes, right there_...

He vaults over the railing, ignoring the shouts of surprise from behind him, because he knows it will only take one, two, three heartbeats before they forget, passing it off as a new fad, urban running or whatever they call it now, because he of all people knows exactly how proficient humans are at self-denial, and tucks himself into a fluid roll.

His movements are precise, simple in essence and instinctual, mechanical, absent, and he's done this so many times that he doesn't need the cover anymore, he doesn't need the shadows or the darkness or the night, he just slips behind the boxes. His mind is already devoid of thought and his eyes are already closing as the last of his breaths escapes his throat in a soft sigh-

 

_nothing here just air just wind just light and shade and walls and pavement_

 

The scattered rush of men and women slow and stop at the abandoned alleyway, a soft breeze skittering across their skin, paper rustling and sliding across the paved ground, and when the wind ceases, for a moment, all is still.

One goes down with a hole through his forehead, another clutches at her arm as her weapon drops, discarded, clattering against the ground, two more sprout knives from their eyes before collapsing and the last falls with a pen lodged in her throat.

A suited man pads into the alley on silent feet, and carefully fishes a business card out of his pocket, before extricating the pen from an unresponsive body, tutting faintly at the blood that splatters his polished dress shoes. He writes a simple message, hand flowing and graceful, before carefully placing it in front of him and sliding it forward.

"It would be a pleasure to work with you," he blandly informs the desolate avenue, the corners of his vividly blue eyes crinkling ever so slightly, and smartly executes a snappy salute before slipping away, the dark fabric of his attire melting into the shadows.

 

A considerable amount of time later, a hand extends from behind the cardboard, pulling the card closer, and shadowy form detaches itself from the rooftop, dropping, catlike, with a shock of flaming red hair.

"Yes," Clint says, simply, and Natasha nods her assent.

 

 

 

4.

Clint slithers through the vents, the faint rushes of cooler air sending goosebumps rippling along his exposed arms, because _it's impossible_ , there can be no way, Fury is a fucking liar who lies all the fucking time, and Phil can't- isn't- _couldn't be_ -

He contorts himself and twists, and his even breaths don't even hint at the panic welling inside his chest, pooling in his throat, tightening his lungs, choking him, strangling and painful and suffocating because _if Phil is dead it's Clint's fault_ , and when he catches the barest glimpse of a sterile white, he flits across to it.

The bottom of his stomach drops, because _Phil_ is in the bed, forlorn and deserted and heartbreakingly _small_ beside the tubing and the machinery and the cold, cold steel, and before Clint knows what he himself is doing, the vent cover is already sliding back into place, and he's beside Phil's bed, cupping Phil's hand with his own, hands that never tremble but can't stop from shaking now.

His entire world narrows to the man on the bed, the man who, against all odds, is still alive, his heart still beating, and Clint sinks to his knees, and rests his head on Phil's chest, and lets himself breath-

 

_empty space hollow vacant nothing but you're not alone i'm here_

 

The doctors who check on Phil in rotating succession putter around him, fussing with wires and checking machinery, printing out readings and writing in clipboards, and Fury comes to visit, pulling up a chair next to his injured comrade.

"Thank you for following my orders, Coulson," he murmurs, rubbing his hand across his face, his stubble scratchy, and tries to decide how exactly he'll broach the subject with a team of superheroes who probably won't be particularly excited about realizing he had inadvertently lied to them about their handler's death.

28 hours later, when Phil wakes up from his medically induced coma, for the first time since his "death", blue eyes bleary, Fury rouses himself only to find Phil staring off into thin air, the gentlest of smiles gracing his face. He offers a soft and murmured "Hi," aimed at nothing, before his eyelids fall closed again and he falls into a natural sleep.

 

 

 

5.

Clint wants to stay in the car, to avoid the inevitable, but Phil is already outside, hand extended, with that smile he reserves just for Clint crinkling the corners of his eyes, and Clint can't deny Phil anything, never could.

He takes it, letting himself be pulled to his feet, and Phil fusses with his shirt for a moment before stepping backwards, pride and joy and an emotion Clint still doesn't want to put a name on lighting his eyes. "Look at you," he breathes, and Clint shifts under the inspection, unable to stop the flush creeping up his neck, the bashful smile curving his mouth, and Phil kisses him gently.

"So, Phillip, are you going to introduce us or just play kissy-face with your boyfriend?" comes a voice from behind them, and Clint smiles because he'd seen her coming even before he came out of the car, but Phil pretends to be surprised, letting his hands fall from cupping Clint's cheeks, angling his head, looking away with a sheepish grin.

"Hi, Jen." Phil greets her, and steps aside, motioning at Clint. "This is my boyfriend. Clint, meet my younger sister."

Clint looks at her for a moment, because even though he's already catalogued her and assessed every single threat she may pose from, it's impolite not to acknowledge other people, and he waves tentatively.

"Hi?" he tries, and it comes out like a question, and he has just enough time to remind himself _this is Phil's sister not a threat_ before she's in his space, hugging him, and, with an extreme effort of will, he prevents himself from automatically flipping her over his hip and slamming her into the car because _this isn't dangerous, remember_.

Phil shoots him an apologetic smile over the top of his sister's head, and Clint shakes his head fondly.

"Don't just stand there like a lump," Jen chides him. "I know you're my brother's boyfriend, but I think I deserve a turn with those magnificent works of art you call arms."

"Jen," Phil rolls his eyes, and Clint snickers before wrapping his arms around her tightly, reminding himself that _this is just a civilian, no need for too much strength_ , and she shivers.

"Jesus, Phil," she sighs, before extracting herself from his grasp, turning on her brother. "Where have you been hiding him and where can I get one?"

Clint likes her.

When they walk back to the house, he can practically feel her eyes roaming along the curve of his ass as he strides a few steps in front of her, hand in Phil's, and he puts a bit of a sway in his step. He can practically hear her swallow, and yelps when Phil smacks his butt.

"Don't tease my sister," he scolds, and he doesn't even reach the doorbell before the door flies open to reveal a small, elderly woman.

"Phillip!" she cries, and pulls him into a tight embrace, and Clint chuckles as more people trickle out of the house, crushing Phil under a pile of flailing arms and legs, but he can't mask his growing anxiety, his growing nervousness, and from the look Phil shoots him, he can tell, but he's overwhelmed by family so Clint slips inside. Clint knows he's not the kind of man you bring home for Christmas. Sure, he's good looking and he knows how to use it, but his work is hazardous, precarious, he's barely got a GED and has no marketable skills apart from archery, and even though Phil has spent wonderful, breathless hours singing Clint's praises, Clint can't help but feel slightly... inadequate.

So he does what he always does when he's worried. He slides into the slightly confining cupboard, and lets his mind empty of all thoughts bar a pair of infinitely warm blue eyes, and exhales-

 

_just a few minutes of silence peaceful quiet space relief_

 

A few moments later, Phil opens the door of the empty cupboard.

"My mom wants to meet you." he says, even though there's nothing there, and he leans on the door. "My cousins have heard tell of all your exploits, and Amber is annoyed that Jen got to grope you before she did. Mike's jealous that his wife is entertaining improper thoughts about my boyfriend, and Zach has just taken up archery with Abby. Jen would be happy if you gave him some pointers."

He pads into the cramped space, and closes the door behind him, the darkness cut only by the faint glimmer of light coming from underneath the door. "Abby is desperate to meet you, and I'm pretty sure she's got a massive crush on you, though she'll never admit it. Alex wants to show you his Iron Man figurine collection, and Emma doesn't say much yet, but she always loves it when people read her stories."

He takes a deep breath, and his smile is only just barely visible in the near-blackness. "Of course, we could stay here, if that's what you want. I don't mind, as long as I get to be with you."

 

Clint's breath hitches, because nothing he has ever done has prepared him for this amazing man, and he draws Phil in, pulling him tight, because Phil is the only one who sees him, really and truly _sees_ him, even when he's not there, even when he doesn't exist, and he still doesn't think he deserves this, deserves Phil, Phil's love, but he's going to make the most of it. Phil deserves someone better, so Clint will _make_ himself better, until he's finally worthy of Phil, and in that moment, he reaches his resolution, and steps out of the cupboard.

"Let's go?" he asks, and he still can't keep his voice from shaking, but Phil just beams at him, delighted beyond words, taking his hand.

"They're in the living room. I'll show you the way."

 

 

 

+1.

Clint is on the rooftop, the noise of Tony's party filtering up from behind him, and he gazes out into the distance of New York, marvelling how the city can be so darkened and deserted and still so loud, so alight, so _alive_.

"Mind if I sit here?" cuts gently through the darkness, and Clint smiles even though he knows Phil can't see it, knowing Phil will hear it in his voice.

"Never." he admits, quietly, and Phil settles next to him, with a soft sigh, his collar loosened and his tie dishevelled, and Clint is flooded with warmth because he knows he is the only person to ever see Phil like this, his walls completely removed, his guard lowered. Not even Phil's family has been privy to these private, intimate moments.

Clint looks back to the night sky, but for some reason, he doesn't feel quiet. He feels calm, and peaceful, serene even, but for the first time in his life, he doesn't feel the urge to disappear, the urge to vanish and cease being for a while, because this moment is _perfect_. _This_ is perfect, with the man he loves sitting quietly next to him, understanding how important Clint's silence is to him, and instead of breaking it, joining him in it, being silent together, connected by barely audible inhales and exhales, and he feels an indescribable urge to, to-

 

" _I'm taking small steps, 'cause I don't know where I'm going,_ " he murmurs, and Phil draws closer carefully, his starched shirt rustling, listening,  
" _I'm taking small steps, and I don't know what to say. Small steps, trying to pull myself together, and maybe I'll discover a clue, along the way..._ "

 

" _Clint,_ " Phil breathes, awestruck, and Clint turns to face him, to see the wonder shining in those blue eyes, as Phil understands, realizes that Clint feels completely and utterly secure with him, safe in a way he's never felt before, and a moment later, Phil's lips are pressed to his, and Clint can't stop a surprised chuckle from bubbling up. Phil greedily devours it as he leans in closer, and something in his suit pocket bumps into Clint's chest.

He pulls back, panting softly, and Phil's eyes are molten with warmth, resplendent in the near-darkness, and Clint starts, "Phil," before he realizes Phil is down on one knee, with a soft, hesitant smile gracing his face, pulling out a tiny, dark box.

"Um," Phil says, and Clint stares at him, stares at the slightly sheepish expression on his face, the way his hands are trembling, ever so slightly, and he laughs, long, and loud, reeling Phil in and clutching him tight.

"Yes." he whispers, breathless, when he can finally speak again.

Phil grins, wide and proud and loving and ever-so-slightly rueful. "I didn't even get to ask the question," he mutters, and Clint snorts, because Phil has obviously planned this out, has worked it into this fantasy in his mind.

"Do it now," he urges, because he's loathe to deny Phil anything, and Phil looks at him, hesitant.

"You sure?" Phil starts, and Clint's already nodding, ecstatic and exuberant and disbelieving because _this is happening, this is really happening,_ and he clears his throat.

"Marry me?"

Clint takes a moment to look at him, to truly look at him, to look at the man who changed his life, the man who showed him that _sometimes you don't have to stay silent_ , and lets everything he feels show in his eyes, and he _knows_ Phil knows from the way Phil's eyes widen, the way his breath catches, the way his gaze fills with love. " _Yes._ "

**Author's Note:**

> дурачок is a fond way of calling someone an idiot. Literally translates to "little idiot".  
> Credits to Velvet_Worm for pointing out my mistake. I owe you one :)
> 
> The title of this fic is contained in the song Clint sings. The song itself is written in the book "Small Steps" by Louis Sachar, and has not been formally produced, composed or recorded, much to my disappointment.
> 
> You can find the lyrics [here](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/1196475-it-s-a-lost-and-lonely-kind-of-feeling-to-wake).


End file.
